


Chosen

by cywscross



Series: Tumblr Prompts 2015 [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Phoenix Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has waited over five thousand years for his first Chosen but even he didn't expect someone as troublesome as a werewolf with a vendetta the size of Russia.</p><p>Then again, anyone else might not want Stiles as much as Peter does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SincerelySincereSmile (Mellie2605)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellie2605/gifts).



> [ **sincerelysinceresmile** ](http://sincerelysinceresmile.tumblr.com)  
> **said: 28. Transformations / Superpowers / Supernatural AU (character as something other than human) Steter (Stiles) ~~or Bleach (Ichigo)~~ :D**  
>     
>  **Prompt:**  
> [ **Burning days are the worst.** ](http://writeworld.org/post/111020439223/burning-days-are-the-worst)
> 
> I don’t really like this one, or at least not all of it, it feels very prologue-y to me, and I sort of want to write about all their fantastical travels, but at the same time, I’ve been working on this prompt for ages and the words just aren’t coming so I’m wrapping it up and counting it done.
> 
> And fuck I still have so many prompts to do it’s not funny.

 

Stiles meets his first Chosen in a hospital in a backwater little town that he randomly chose and moved into only a few years ago.  He turns around, sees a pair of icy blue eyes set in a scarred face, and something flares to life inside him, singing a perfect melody even as he wonders if maybe Beacon Hills wasn't such a random choice after all.

“You must be Stiles,” Peter Hale says, and when he smiles, there is nothing but rage and madness and a grief that runs right down to the soul.

 _And you must be my Chosen_ , Stiles thinks, thrilled and stunned and worried and resigned all at once.

This... complicates things.

 

* * *

 

Stiles regards Scott with a constant mix of exasperation, annoyance, and indulgent amusement.  The boy is so intrinsically _good_ in a way that mortals rarely are, and Stiles is actually surprised that the boy doesn’t have a phoenix familiar of his own.  Most phoenixes Stiles knows would adore this human-turned-werewolf _because_ of how naturally moralistic he is.  It’s also exactly why Stiles _doesn’t_.

He’s always been weird like that, an outcast amongst his own kind, and not just for his unusual-coloured plumage.  Phoenixes are attracted to those with noble hearts, to those who want to do good, to _be_ good people.  Perhaps they've made mistakes in the past, perhaps they've done bad things in the name of good intentions, but they’ll also have repented, and they try to stick to the road of the righteous.

Frankly, Stiles has never seen the appeal.  It’s _boring_.  When he walks amongst mortals, he’s drawn to the broken ones, the hidden messes of society that people never want to look too closely at for fear of what they’ll find, the _survivors_.  But Stiles prefers them _because_ of what he’ll find, the dark secrets tucked between the cracks, the invisible scars that will never disappear.  Because they're what makes humanity interesting.  Phoenixes are supposed to be guides of sorts, protector and defender and companion, and what use is all three to noble hearts who may _deserve_ a bond with a sacred spirit but won’t ever truly _need_ them when it comes down to it?

Stiles has waited millennia for a Chosen, made fun of and whispered about by other phoenixes who – as time passed – all wondered why he hasn't met even one match yet when phoenixes half his age have already gone through at least a few each.  He’s been alone for so long despite the fleeting friends he’s made along the way, and now that his wait is finally over, he isn’t about to be brushed aside so easily.  He’ll let Peter have his revenge – those responsible deserve no less ( _and thoughts like that is why his own kind shuns him; born wrong, they've all agreed_ ) – but afterwards, well, Stiles is hard to ignore, human or phoenix.  And he may be deficient in the eyes of his species, but he knows how to be loyal, and his long life has given him knowledge to spare, not to mention he has both intellect and power to offer.  Peter seems like the type to value all of that, and maybe, with time, he’ll come to value _Stiles_ as well.

Still, Stiles will have to consider his next steps cautiously.  Peter is his Chosen even if the man doesn't know it yet, and Stiles is practically duty-bound to side with him even if he doesn't want to, which he does.  At the same time however, Stiles has lived in Beacon Hills long enough to develop some affection for Scott McCall no matter how frustrating the boy’s black-and-white naivety can become, which is why he can’t allow Peter to continue his chaotic rampage across town.

Killing those who had a hand in burning his family alive – fine.  Killing innocents – not so fine.  Stiles may not be as moralistically inclined as his fellow birds but he certainly doesn't condone needless slaughter either.

Stiles has seen the madness in Peter’s eyes, and no wonder – being left alone and stuck in his own head for six years can’t be good for anybody’s sanity, much less a werewolf’s, but if Stiles could just establish the bond between them properly, and of course, explain certain things to his Chosen, then that should be enough to anchor Peter and drag him back from the brink.

Stiles just has to find the right time to do that.

 

* * *

 

Peter asks if Stiles wants the Bite.

Stiles almost laughs in the werewolf’s face.  He says no.

Peter walks away instead of killing him.  Stiles wonders if some part of the man can already sense the fledgling connection between them.

“Wait!”  Stiles tries, torn between running after Peter and transforming right then and there, but his Chosen’s revenge isn’t over yet, and for all that he’s so much older, Stiles doesn’t quite know how to reveal what he is to-

And while he’s dithering, Peter is already sliding back into his (former) nurse’s car.  Even if he does feel something of the bond between them, it’s not enough to make him stay.

Not right now.

So Stiles lets him go one more time.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles throws the Molotov cocktail, he misses on purpose.  The throw is sloppy and arcs just enough for Peter to see it coming.  For him to catch it.  For him to at least pause and look around and _think_.

Katherine Argent is dead.  Peter can stop.  Stiles takes a step forward, ready to talk.  Even if that means revealing himself to all and sundry, he’ll do it to at least establish some form of a bond between them and knock some sanity back into his Chosen.

He does _not_ expect _Scott_ of all people to toss his girlfriend her bow and an arrow, and then direct her to _shoot_ the chemical mixture.

Perhaps Stiles underestimated Scott after all.

But that doesn't matter right now.  What matters is that that bow is raised, that arrow is notched, that weapon is pointed directly at _Stiles’ Chosen_ , and _fire take the world that’s not happening on his watch_.

The arrow flies.

So does Stiles.

He takes two running steps forward, his form already shifting and blurring until he’s more feathers than limbs, and then he’s streaking off towards Peter before anyone can even take a good look at the supposed average human.

Stiles catches a glimpse of wide startled crimson eyes a second before the arrow hits the Molotov cocktail that the werewolf is still holding.  A fraction of a second after that, Stiles crashes into it as well, tearing it from his Chosen’s hand and throwing up a thin sheen of blue fire for good measure just as the entire concoction explodes.

Contrary to popular belief in fiction and myths across the realms, phoenixes aren’t actually immune to fire (which is really fucking stupid and unfair in Stiles’ opinion).  They can ward off fire with their own flames – as Stiles just did to protect Peter from the blast radius – and they have a higher tolerance for it, but without any protection, they can burn just as easily as any mortal, especially when you stack an explosion on top of that.

Stiles releases a piercing, chilling scream as the flames consume him, devouring his feathers and ravaging his body as his wings flap uselessly in reaction to the overwhelming pain, unable to take flight as he writhes and flails on the forest floor.

He must look completely undignified but he can’t bring himself to care right that moment.  He just wants it to stop, wants it to end, and he knows he’ll get his wish.  He can feel the reaper approaching already, swift and inevitable, and it’s both a blessing and a curse as darkness closes in around him and his own inner flame reacts, pushing outward, readyready _ready_ -

He shrieks one last wailing note of agony, and that’s it – he bursts into flames all on his own, blue this time even though he can’t see it, and then-

-nothing.

 

* * *

 

Until-

Awareness is slow to come.  Everything is hazy but he thinks he hears a frantic rustling noise, somebody is growling, and then he feels careful hands scooping him up.  He’s too weak to even struggle, but instinctively, he knows that whoever has him won’t harm him.

He wonders why but that thought slips away before he can really mull it over.

There’s more growling, and then an outright feral snarl, followed by a jumble of words that don’t make sense in his head.

And then they’re moving.  Running more like, if the swift loping gait is anything to go by.  He shivers, cold, and the hands holding him cradle him closer to a warm chest and an elevated but steadily beating heart.

He falls asleep to the sound of it thumping in his ears, safe in the inherent knowledge that the person who has him won’t let him come to harm.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes with a groan.  His whole body _aches_.

“Fuck,” He grits out without opening his eyes, human body curled up in what seems to be a nest of blankets.  “I _hate_ burning days.”

“...Do they happen often?”

Stiles goes still, memories rushing back at the sound of that voice, and then he grunts and tries to find a more comfortable position.  He’s lying mostly on his stomach on a bed, face half-buried in a pillow.  There’s a breeze coming in from somewhere, refreshingly cool against his bare skin.  “I’m a _phoenix_ ; what do you think?”

With some difficulty, he flops over and peels open his eyelids, and a white ceiling coming into focus above him.  For a long moment after, all he does is stare up at it and breathe.

And then he raises a hand, fingers spread.  His lip curls.  There are black feathers along the length of his arm but – upon closer observation – he realizes that they’ve been combed to sleek perfection, not a single raven barb out of place.

He lowers his arm and finally slants his gaze to the chair at his bedside where Peter Hale is sitting, now dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans.  His sleeves are rolled up, his elbows are balanced on his thighs, and when Stiles lifts his gaze, vivid blue eyes – _no longer unhinged and so much calmer than the last time Stiles looked into them_ – meet his evenly.  He’s grown more noticeable stubble too, either because he hasn't had time to shave or he’s going for a new look.

“Did you groom me?”  Stiles huffs, rolling onto his side now to face Peter more directly.

The werewolf cants his head in a vaguely affirmative gesture, gaze never wavering from Stiles.  “Well, you were looking a bit...”

Stiles scowls, running fingers through his hair.  Hair that’s more feathers than hair at the moment.  Some come loose and flutter down around him to join the handful of other feathers already scattered amongst the blankets.  Every single one is as black as night.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” He grumbles.  “I looked like a half-plucked chicken.  Hope you had a good laugh.”

He gets an elbow underneath him and pushes himself halfway up before his muscles give again and he ends up collapsing back onto the bed with a strangled warbling cry.

Wow, this is embarrassing.

“There’s really nothing funny about burning to death,” Peter remarks with faux lightness from his side.  “Even if you don’t stay dead.”

Stiles pauses at that.  Fantastic.  Not two minutes into their first real non-threatening conversation and he’s already upset his Chosen.

Still.  He isn’t about to get maudlin about it.

“One thing you should learn about immortality, Peter,” He grunts out as he tries shoving himself upright again.  “You end up finding a lot of things funny.  Otherwise, life gets depressing very quickly.”

He manages to straighten out his human spine, only to almost topple over again, but then there’s a hand at the small of his back supporting him, and he all but slumps into Peter’s chest when the man obligingly moves from the chair to the bed.

His Chosen is warm and solid against him, and before Stiles can stop himself, a happy trilling sound escapes his mouth before he can suppress it.

Stiles freezes.  There’s a beat of silence, and then Peter releases a scratchy noise of amusement from above him.

Stiles huffs indignantly.  “Shut up.  My vocal chords are still sorting themselves out.”

He grumbles out a few more half-hearted complaints in a mishmash of languages before English finally clicks back into place at the forefront of his mind.  Burning days are always followed by a stupid amount of time of tidying up everything he knows.

“I recognized Italian, Polish, and Greek,” Peter remarks without warning.  “And possibly Wolf.  What were the others?”

Stiles shuts up for a long minute before pulling away a little just enough to peer up at his Chosen.  Intent blue eyes look back at him expectantly, a touch of smugness curling at the corners of the werewolf’s lips at having – evidently – surprised Stiles.

Stiles smiles, slow and pleased.  He rewinds his own words in his head, dividing them into... eight languages.

“Dryadian,” He ticks off.  “Pictish, Greenlandic Norse, and-” He grins.  “-a dialect of Elvish.”

Peter’s eyes gleam with intrigue.  “Phoenixes know a lot of languages then?”

Stiles laughs.  “Phoenixes know every language.”

Peter hums thoughtfully.  Stiles stretches out a kink in his muscles.  The werewolf accommodates him, shifting Stiles into a more comfortable position against Peter.  Stiles inwardly rolls his eyes when his Chosen also takes the opportunity to not-so-sneakily run a possessive hand down Stiles’ half-feathered back.

“I know the Fae exist,” Peter continues.  “But I wasn’t aware that elves were real as well.”

“’Course they’re real,” Stiles scrunches his nose.  “Just not in this realm.”

Peter goes still.  “...’This realm’?”

Even with his face set in carefully neutral lines, the thrum of excitement that Stiles can sense from him is unmistakeable.

Stiles smirks.  “Well there’s more than one, obviously.  This world...” His gaze slides to the open window.  “The majority of this world’s inhabitants stopped believing a long time ago.  Humans here, so afraid of what they can’t control, so they set out to destroy it.  All that beauty, all that life.  The elves moved on a long time ago.  This realm wasn’t their native world anyway so they were fine with leaving it behind.  There used to be other races too, like dragons.  You’ve read at least some accounts of dragons becoming extinct, right?  Or not existing at all, fairy tales at best?  Both are wrong.  Dragons left this realm even before the last of the elves did.  People still remember witch hunts, even if most don’t believe in witches anymore.  Likewise, dragon-hunting used to be a sport.  But that was thousands of years ago, and people don’t remember that anymore.  This world is older than you think.  It’s seen three apocalypses come and go, and still it lives on.  Humans especially are like cockroaches that way.”

He stops and glances back up at Peter.  His Chosen looks... fascinated.  Truly fascinated, like he could sit here and listen to Stiles recount history for the rest of eternity and not get bored.

Stiles quirks a smile this time.  “You believe me?”  Mortals usually need proof.  Or at least, more convincing.

“I’m a werewolf,” Peter points out.  “I can tell you’re not lying.  And you’re a phoenix; I can believe you’ve seen your fair share of wonders.  Besides, I like to think I can be a little more open-minded than the usual plebeians you have to deal with.”

Stiles snorts with laughter.  “Plebeians?  What, like Scott?”

A sneer flits across Peter’s features.  “You figured out he was a werewolf before _he_ figured it out.”

“That’s hardly a fair comparison since it wasn’t exactly difficult for me,” Stiles defends.  “I know a werewolf when I see one.”

Peter just scoffs but at least he drops the subject in favour of plucking a stray loose feather from Stiles’ arm.  “Are you supposed to be molting this much?”

“Yeah, it’s normal, don’t worry about it,” Stiles makes another bid to sit up straight, and this time he succeeds.  He inwardly preens when Peter lets him go but doesn’t let him get far, one hand resting against his lower back instead.  “Now where are we?  And how long have I been out?”

“A hotel, at the edge of Beacon Hills,” Peter reports.  “And five days.  You spent four of those in bird form, growing at a frankly disturbing rate.  You didn’t turn human until this morning.”

Stiles cracks a yawn.  “Sounds about right.  I heal faster in my true form.  I should change back but-”

He breaks off abruptly and turns to look at Peter.  All at once, the easy atmosphere between them disappears, leaving a solemn air behind that thickens with tension.  Peter stiffens, sensing the change, and his hand slips away from Stiles’ back so that they can face each other more directly.

“Business first, I suppose,” Stiles murmurs, watching his Chosen with hungry eyes.  He’s old, millennia old, but normally, he can embrace his inner child and at least act _human_ and _young_.  Even in most other realms, phoenixes aren’t exactly common, so travelling as a human-lookalike has always been easier.

But now, he lets that all fall away, leaving behind something ancient and perhaps more fitting of a creature as old as he.

“Why did you pick me up?”  He starts.  “You could’ve run while the others were distracted with me.  You didn’t have to take me with you.”

Peter’s mouth twists a little with distaste.  He meets Stiles’ gaze without a flicker of fear or even hesitation, and that’s something not many can do when Stiles isn’t making any effort to hide the weight of what he is.

Peter doesn’t give him a reply though.  Stiles cocks his head, bird-like, probably, before reaching out with one hand.  Peter tenses, but he doesn’t pull away when Stiles presses his palm to the man’s chest, over the steady beat of his heart.

Stiles takes a breath, gaze turning inward, and he barely needs to _think_ about it before the bond between him and his Chosen flares to life like the first ray of sunlight at dawn.

He hears Peter choke on a gasp, and then – likely guided by instinct – he feels the werewolf latch onto the bond as well with a desperation and greed that surprises even Stiles.

When he focuses again, Peter is staring wide-eyed at him, eyes glinting with a sliver of Alpha red that makes his irises appear almost purple.

“What-” Peter cuts himself off, swallowing his question even as his silence demands an answer.

He doesn’t, Stiles notices, relinquish the mental death grip he has on their bond.

“All throughout history, across every realm in existence,” Stiles begins with perhaps more storyteller flair than strictly necessary, but he’s been waiting to give this speech for hundreds upon hundreds of years.  “There are mortals – some not even born yet – designated as a phoenix’s Chosen.  A Chosen is... well I suppose in mortal terms, it is akin to a soulmate, a bond that can be formed between two souls.  It is not a bond that can be created between a phoenix and just anyone.  Phoenixes are duty-bound to aid and protect their Chosen once they are found, and most phoenixes go through several Chosen in the course of their lives.  We can only ever have one Chosen at a time though, and we’ll stick with our Chosen for however long you live.”

He pauses, examining Peter’s expression.  “Nobody really knows why phoenixes can only bond with certain people, why _each_ phoenix has their own Chosen and cannot bond with another phoenix’s Chosen, but we all feel the urge from the moment we’re born.  Although most Chosen are...” Stiles mulls over his next words before scoffing indelicately.  “Most Chosen are... like Scott.”

Even under the thrall of Stiles’ explanation, Peter’s face spasms briefly with revulsion.  Stiles has to suppress a snicker.

“You’d get bored playing Scott McCall’s babysitter,” Peter declares with astounding certainty considering the fact that they really haven’t known each for all that long.

Stiles inclines his head in acknowledgement.  “Yes I would.  So it’s probably lucky that I’m playing your babysitter instead.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but there’s a light in them now that has nothing to do with being a werewolf.  “I’m a Chosen then?”

A rather redundant question, and Peter’s tone borders on mockery, but...

“You’re _my_ Chosen,” Stiles corrects with a ferocity that even he doesn’t expect, and he can see licks of flame snake through his feathers, blue on black, so unlike other phoenixes.  “You’re _mine_.  And of course, I’m yours.  If you’ll have me.”

Anxiety tightens like a vice around his heart but he shunts it to the back of his mind.  He’s far too old for insecurities, damn it.  He shouldn’t even have said that last bit.

Peter doesn’t respond right away.  Instead, he runs his fingers through the feathers adorning Stiles’ left arm, pausing an inch away from a tendril of fire, but only for a second, and then he’s combing his fingers through that too.  The fire parts and leaps and darts around Peter’s hand, but it doesn’t burn.  It won’t.  Stiles won’t ever let it.

When he looks up again, the crimson is gone from his eyes, bright with something else instead.

Hunger, Stiles senses, one that matches his own.  Possessiveness, innate in any werewolf, magnified tenfold in Peter.  And hope, fragile and cautious, but _there_.

The bond trembles between them, waiting.

“What will we do then?”  Peter enquires, each word measured.  “You and I?”

“Whatever you want,” Stiles shrugs.  “I’m not picky.  I’d stop you from hurting Scott and his mother because I’ve been in Beacon Hills long enough to grow to like them, but I don’t really see any reason you’d want to kill them anyway.  Not when you’re sane and rational.  Other than that, I’m pretty much up for anything.”  He smiles somewhat wryly.  “Trust me, I don’t have any pressing matters to attend to.  You’re my top priority now.”

He looks down at where Peter is still absently petting him.  It doesn’t feel as condescending as it might if someone else was doing it.

“If you want to stay in Beacon Hills as the Alpha,” Stiles continues.  “Then I’ll stay too and lend you a hand if you need it.  It’ll probably be pretty boring for me – you mortals always fighting amongst yourselves, honestly – but I’ll stay if you stay.  Or if you want to go, then I’ll go too.”

He brightens as a thought occurs to him, an idea that he knows will appeal to Peter.  “We could go travelling.  Exploring.  I could take you to other realms, Peter, anywhere you want.”

A surge of exhilaration and curiosity ripples against Stiles’ senses, though Peter keeps both tucked away.

Again, he doesn’t give a straight answer right away, seeming instead more preoccupied with a thought that makes him ask with deliberate casualness, “How many others have you bonded with?  You said phoenixes tend to have several.  How many other-”

“None,” Stiles blurts out, and he suddenly finds himself at the end of Peter’s crimson gaze again.  His lips thin.  His fingers find another loose feather, twirling it once before tossing it into the air.  A snap of his fingers erases it in a plume of cobalt flames.

He stares at nothing for a long moment before heaving a sigh.

“You’re my first Chosen,” Stiles clarifies.  His next smile probably looks a little funny.  Brittle.  “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.  Over five thousand years.   ...You’re _late_ , in my opinion.”

A lengthy silence ensues, right up until Peter’s hand curls around the back of his neck and guides him forward until Stiles is leaning against the werewolf again, except this time, he’s being thoroughly scented as well.

And the bond.  _Oh_ , the bond – blazing to life between them like lightning and dragon fire and sunsets in Priea, and for a second, Stiles can’t even breathe as it binds him to Peter, and Peter to him.

Peter looks equally stunned when the bond settles into a constant pulse at the back of their minds, and the hand that isn’t still resting on the back of Stiles’ neck comes up to prod gingerly at his chest.

“Travelling?”  Peter repeats when he finds his voice again, red eyes blue once more.  He keeps Stiles close.  “There's nothing left for me in Beacon Hills but I haven’t the faintest idea of where to go first either.”

Stiles beams, feeling like he wants to laugh, or maybe sing.  “I can jump us wherever you want.  And there’s no rush; we have all the time in the world.”

“For you maybe,” Peter tips a sardonic smile at him.  “I may be a werewolf but I probably only have about a century left in me at most.”

Stiles pulls back and blinks at his Chosen.  And then he coughs out a laugh.  “Well, if you want, then of course.  But didn’t I mention?”  He grins, impish and sly.  “You’re mine now, and I’m yours.  Phoenixes are immortal.  Our Chosen – naturally – are too.”

Peter blinks.  “...Wait, then-”

“As of this moment, you’ve stopped aging,” Stiles confirms.  “Most mortals tend to want to pass on after a couple centuries, and their phoenixes will let them go before searching for their next Chosen, and so on and so forth.  Provided, of course, that nobody manages to kill the phoenix, which is rare but still possible.  I’ll do the same, of course.  I can keep you alive for however long you want, and when you want to move on, well.”

 _I’ll probably not let you move on alone,_ Stiles doesn’t say.  His mother was like that.  She too had only one Chosen – Stiles’ father – and when he chose to leave the world of the living, Stiles’ mother went with him, shedding her immortality cycle instead of remaining in a universe without her Chosen.

Peter studies him for a breathless minute.  He looks a bit like it’s only _just_ hitting him now that he’s been bonded to a phoenix and offered immortality, and he can’t quite believe it’s real.

“I’ll probably want to live for more than a few centuries,” He says at last.  “If even half the things you’ve told me exist, I want to see... I want to see all of it.  I want to see _everything_.”

Stiles peels back the collar of Peter’s v-neck, just low enough to see the tattoo-like mark of two black feathers wreathed in blue flames branded the area over Peter’s heart.

“That,” Stiles smiles, gentler this time, wise with age, and joyous with the knowledge that he is no longer alone.  “Can be arranged, Peter Hale.  Like I said, we have all the time in the world.”

Claws prickle the back of Stiles’ neck before Peter’s arms move to bundle Stiles into a hug so that the werewolf can topple them both onto the bed until they’re lying side by side.

“Tempting,” Peter murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle Stiles’ face, blue eyes tracing the contours of his features like Peter never wants to look away.  “Tell me more.”

Stiles does.  Peter listens.

(And one day, every realm in the universe will know of them, a werewolf and his phoenix, a phoenix and his werewolf, and the two of them together will be enough to shake the stars.

But, for now, in a quiet hotel room, in an unassuming little town, stories of old and a newly forged bond is how the two of them begin.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know where I’m going with this. Blame moonstalker24 and that pesky death!Stiles fic. Talk of future adventures with Death and his wolf reminded me of phoenix!Stiles and _his_ wolf, and somehow that turned into the healing cuddling largely pointless fluff this chapter is made of.

 

Peter tries not to keep checking the skies as he makes his way to the address Stiles gave him but it’s proving to be more difficult than he expected when Stiles first flew off, promising to meet him at the apartment after a circuit around town to stretch out his wings.  It helps though, the newly forged bond humming inside him – in his chest, at the back of his mind, engraved into his very bones – and Peter’s certain that even if all five of his senses were blocked off, he’d still be able to find Stiles without a problem.  As it is, he can sense the phoenix even now, rounding the far side of town but far above in the clouds, and if Peter doesn’t pick up his pace, Stiles is going to beat him to their agreed destination.

Still.  A phoenix.  Even now, part of Peter is reeling from all the things revealed to him since Stiles woke up, and it makes him wonder if maybe he’s actually still in a coma and his mind’s simply invented a nicer dream for once rather than plaguing him with his usual nightmares.

But no, he doubts anyone could ever dream up the soul bond he’s formed with a not-so-mythical bird that feels stronger than any pack bond he’s ever had, that makes _him_ feel stronger already, even more than being an Alpha – but a _lone_ Alpha – does.  It should unsettle him, perhaps.  He barely knows Stiles, no matter how fascinating he finds the boy – bird? – even before Stiles revealed himself to be a phoenix.  But at the same time, Stiles _died_ for him, burned for him, and he told Peter that Peter is his Chosen, that he’s been waiting for Peter for over _five thousand years_ , and, well, if nothing else, that sort of thing does wonders for a man’s ego.

It doesn’t take him that much longer to reach Stiles’ apartment.  He slips up the stairs and finds the right number before forcing the lock open.  The key’s long since melted and probably still in the Preserve right now.

There’s not much inside.  The basics – kitchen, sitting room, bathroom, bedroom, furniture in each – but little else.  Even the bed is just a nest of blankets pooled on top of a mattress.

But it’s cozy.  There’s a small bookshelf in the bedroom that Peter makes a beeline for, greedily taking in all the titles he doesn’t recognize, _can’t_ recognize, because most are in languages that he’s fairly certain don’t exist on earth.  There are a few Greek texts, a few Latin, and a few in what he’s pretty sure is some dialect of Fae that he’s seen before but doesn’t know the name of.

He chooses a random book off the shelf, one in a language he doesn’t know, but when he scans the cover, the title symbols seem to blur for a few seconds before his eyes.  He blinks rapidly three times, and everything clears up again, only-

In flowing script across the leather-bound cover, he reads,

_Deep Waters  
Volume 1_

_Penned by Iathyia_

Peter stands motionless for a long time, right up until his soul bond shivers, and the flutter of wings outside reaches his ears.  A moment later, Stiles pops in in a burst of blue flame, and a black phoenix is perched on top of the bookshelf, chirping enquiringly at him.  He’s magnificent despite the fact that Peter can see that his plumage isn’t quite as glossy as it probably should be, and some feathers are still growing out.

He blinks up at the bird.  “I can read.”

 _{Well, I certainly hope so.}_ Stiles’ voice echoes in his head, amusement as clear as the chime of a silver bell.  Peter rolls his eyes and held up the book.  Stiles chirrups brightly, and the soul bond thrums warmly in Peter’s chest.  _{It didn’t suddenly become English, if that’s what you’re asking about.  I told you – you are mine, and I am yours.  Immortality’s not the only thing I gave you, you know.  The book you’re holding was written by a siren I know.  She gave me an advanced copy.}_

And then, while Peter is digesting that new tidbit, the phoenix hops off the shelf, wings spreading to glide over Peter’s head, and a rustle of black feathers later, there’s a naked boy draped over his shoulders and down along his back.  He’s very light, even by werewolf standards.

“Mm,” Stiles mumbles, tucking his head in the crook of Peter’s neck.  “It’s not a _complete_ understanding of all languages. You get the… the foundation of each language from me when you see it, maybe a bit more than that if it’s similar to a language you already know, sort of like the way you’d recognize some… Portuguese if you already know Spanish, but if you want to know it like you know English or something, you’re gonna have to put the effort in to learn it.”

Well that sounds perfect to Peter.  As much as he values knowledge, it really would get rather boring if it was all handed to him just like that.

“I see,” He pauses, feeling the downy soft barbs of Stiles’ hair feathers brush his cheek.  “Stiles?”

“’m still tired,” Stiles sighs mournfully.  “Burning days suck.”

No doubt.  Stiles’ piercing screams still echo in Peter’s head.

“We could sleep some more,” He offers, shifting Stiles around until he can wrap an arm around the boy’s waist.  His body temperature is actually cooler than even a human's, which is interesting, and Peter makes a note to ask about it later.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, hanging limply off Peter so that it’s simply easier for Peter to carry him over to the mattress and deposit him onto the blankets.  The phoenix doesn’t seem at all concerned about his nudity, but then, Peter isn’t either, not about his own, nor about Stiles’, and he can certainly appreciate the smooth, pale expanse of skin that Stiles is inadvertently putting on display as he rolls himself into his makeshift nest.  He has more than one feather in his hair, brown fading into black, and a couple more sprout from his back, near his shoulder blades.

“Are you getting in?”  Stiles peers up at him, amber eyes coy, and Peter smirks, promptly stripping down until he’s as naked as Stiles before stretching out languidly beside the phoenix, book still in one hand.  Stiles beams and immediately curls into him, tucking his head down again so that it’s nestled underneath Peter’s chin.

It must be a bird thing.

“I'mma sleep,” Stiles slurs, and he really does sound exhausted.  “Enjoy y’r book.  ’s a good one.”

And then he’s out like a light, even while his heartbeat remains a swift counterpoint to the slow rise and fall of his chest.  Peter waits a few minutes longer, and then he sweeps a gentle hand down Stiles’ back, closing his eyes and basking in the glow of their soul bond.  He opens his eyes again and pulls Stiles closer before turning his attention to the book.  He may not understand all of it but reading it will only help him learn the language faster.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, even sirens like fiction.  Apparently, even sirens _write_ fiction.  And _good_ fiction at that, with probably a lot more correct references about sirens and their lives above and underwater than anything written by humans.  It’s a relatively short novel but Peter finds himself enjoying it anyway, and it’s evening by the time he finishes, already looking forward to the sequel.

Stiles is still asleep.  Hasn’t even stirred.  Peter hopes that’s normal.  Phoenixes can rise from the dead but the death was a violent one, and Peter doesn’t know whether or not that might affect the aftermath of a phoenix’s resurrection.  Another thing to ask about, this one more important than the others.  As much as he doesn’t really like the idea, he doubts this will be the last time Stiles dies and comes back, so Peter will have to have a thorough understanding of how to take care of him when the phoenix is at his most vulnerable.

A stomach growls, and Peter blinks when he realizes it’s his own.  When was the last time he had a decent meal?  Hell, he doesn’t even have any money.  He was never comfortable eating anything his nurse bought him, even if that meant sticking to hospital food or nothing, and he only accepted one set of clothes from Jennifer.

His stomach growls again, twisting uncomfortably, and as if on cue, Stiles jolts awake, bleary-eyed and a little confused even as one of his hands pats Peter on the hip a couple times.  “Wha-?  You okay?  Wha’s wrong?”

He starts pushing himself up, looking around like he’s checking the shadows for an attack, and then he makes a startled chirping noise when Peter just pulls him back down, rolling them over until Peter’s half on top of him and rubbing their cheeks together.

“I’m fine,” He says after a moment, drowning in their combined scents.

Stiles huffs, nudging insistently at him despite the contentment Peter can smell on him.  “No you’re not.  What’s wrong?”

Peter reluctantly lifts his head.  “…I could eat.”

“Oh.  _Oh_.”  Stiles scowls at him.  “You should’ve said something.”  He tips his head back so that he’s staring out the window upside-down, consequently baring a lovely stretch of throat for Peter.  “It’s dark, Peter!  You should’ve woken me-”

He breaks off with a squeak.  Peter happily takes full responsibility for it and licks over the bob of his throat again.  He kind of wants to bite but that might be taking it a step too far.  A hand slides into his hair and tugs so Peter levers himself up to meet Stiles’ deadpan gaze.  “Really, Peter?”

Peter shrugs.  His wolf feels… _more_ right now, instincts heightened.

“It’s the bond,” Stiles murmurs, absently combing fingers through Peter’s hair.  “It’s still settling.  Once we’re both used to it, well, it’ll still be pretty strong but control will be better.  Or so I’ve heard.  Not that I really mind this-” He trills something that might be words in phoenix language.  “-but we really should get you something to eat first.”

Peter grumbles and nuzzles under Stiles’ jaw.  He doesn’t actually want to move, but his stomach complains again, and he’s getting very stern concern vibes from Stiles.  He heaves a sigh.  “Alright.  Is your fridge stocked?”

“Yup,” Stiles nods as both of them sit up and finally crawl out of bed.  “I put a bunch of preservation runes on it so even the milk should still be good.”

Peter perks up.  He doesn’t know much about runes, aside from what he’s managed to glean from the books he used to track down and collect before the fire, and he’s willing to bet Stiles knows more on the subject than any old text.

But food first.

“I can make dinner,” He offers, pulling on his jeans.  “Maybe pasta?”

“I have everything here to make pasta,” Stiles agrees, although he’s more focused on a feather growing at an awkward angle from his bicep.  He frowns, and before Peter can react, the phoenix reaches up, grasps the feather, and yanks it out.

Peter jerks forward, watching as a bead of blood wells up right before the wound heals over.

“It’s fine,” Stiles quirks a smile at him, setting the feather on fire with a flick of his wrist.  “Sometimes, they don’t grow right when I’ve just come back so it’s better to pull them out early.”

“How long is this… stage going to last?”  Peter enquires tersely.  The image of Stiles yanking out his own feathers does not appeal to him.

“About two weeks,” Stiles reveals, standing up and stretching.  “Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less, depending on how I died, but it’s usually within a month before I’m back at full strength again.”

Peter’s lips thin.  “So this time would be a little more.”

Stiles pauses from where he was about to stoop down and pick up Peter's shirt, and then he turns back to Peter, reaching out to cup a hand over the cheek where Peter’s worst scars once were, and Peter almost trembles at the careful touch.

“A little more,” Stiles admits freely.  “But I was once captured by a witch who wanted to give herself immortality by figuring out what made a phoenix tick.  She killed me thirteen times, always before I could fully recover, and in increasingly inventive ways too, until I managed to save myself, and it took me a whole three months to heal, and I was alone.”  He smiles, and his eyes glow with an inner fire that puts a spark of blue in those amber depths.  “Now I have you so I’m not worried.  Even if I die in fire again, I’ll come back, and you’ll be waiting for me.”

Peter doesn’t even realize he’s bared his fangs until Stiles runs a thumb over the one slicing into his bottom lip.  It takes a few seconds to swallow back the shift, and even then, his voice comes out pitched low with the vibrations of a snarl.  “Is she dead?”

Stiles cocks his head, delicately bird-like, but this time, his smile is one that Peter recognizes, a terrible, terrifying thing that makes him match it with one of his own.

Phoenixes aren’t supposed to be like Stiles, Stiles told him earlier, an old, resigned sort of hurt pulsing along their bond, but overshadowed by a fierce sense of pride as well, a refusal to be ashamed, and Peter is just beginning to realize how lucky he is because he wouldn’t want Stiles – a companion, a partner, and more than likely his future mate – any other way.

He tilts his head, lips grazing Stiles’ palm briefly before motioning at the door.  “I’ll start dinner.  Do you want to grab a shower first?”

The tension dissipates.  The easy calm from before returns.  Dinner that night is the best meal Peter’s had in years, and the company only makes it better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
>  
> 
> Hmm... confrontations next time?


	3. Chapter 3

 

They get one more night of sleep in peace before it’s abruptly shattered to pieces in the morning.  Quite literally too when Derek rips down the front door in a rain of debris, yelling for his uncle.

Every protective instinct Peter has goes into overdrive the second he’s roused from sleep by the thump of rapid footsteps on the landing outside, and all he knows is _Pack is still vulnerable_ and _get rid of the threat_.

He’s out of bed, down the hall, and in the kitchen to meet the first intruder in a heartbeat, snarling gutturally the moment he lays eyes on his nephew, and it’s _easy_ to duck under the swipe of Derek’s claws – _so slow_ – catch him around the neck, and break all four of his limbs before throwing him back out the broken doorway and right over the railing.

There’s a loud crash from down below, and a howl of pain, but Peter pays it no mind, lunging for Scott next, whose movements are clumsy with both inexperience and shock at Derek’s quick defeat, and it’s even easier for Peter to take him down, doing the same to the omega’s arms and legs before sending him careening out after Derek as well.  Scott screams a lot more than Derek, and he lands on something with a sickening crunch, but he’s not dead, and Peter could’ve killed him just as easily.  The last bit of human logic still in him at the moment tells him that that’s a bad idea, and as much as his wolf hates leaving them alive, he manages to reel that part of him in, especially when he can redirect that hatred to the two Argents that just appeared in his line of sight.

“That’s enough, Hale!”  Chris Argent barks, a gun aimed at Peter’s head while his daughter – _nervous, untried by death and suffering at her own hands, still so naïve and confused_ – levels a crossbow bolt at Peter’s chest.  “You won’t be-”

Whatever he won’t be, Peter doesn’t find out, because in the next moment, both Argents’ weapons go up in flames, cobalt blue and searing hot judging by the way the gun and bow melt like butter in an oven, and the hunters drop them with a curse and yelp respectively, scattering blue fire all over the floor before they too flicker out.

“Are you people insane?”

A hand lands on Peter’s back, and Peter can feel his wolf settle immediately, even while he remains tense because these people have already killed Stiles once, and it’s not _safe_ , and Peter just wants to slaughter them all before they can hurt Stiles ever again.

“Stiles!” Allison starts, only to falter and shrink into herself like she doesn’t even really want to be here.  “Um… you’re- you’re okay?”

Stiles steps up beside Peter, and his face doesn’t show it, but Peter can feel a spark of surprise from him.  “I am.”

He walks forward, and Peter almost tries to grab him and shuffle him back again, but Stiles is in a shirt and boxers, with not a single feather showing, and Peter understands that they shouldn’t show weakness right now.

“But even if I wasn’t,” Stiles lets his gaze drift over the remains of his door and the hole that his doorway’s become.  “Is this how you’d handle it?  Then again, I doubt you came here for me, so I suppose the question should be, is this how you’d handle supernatural business?  Busting down doors and pulling out weapons and wolfing out in the middle of downtown?”

Allison doesn’t look like she knows how to respond.  She glances at her dad, who actually grimaces with something close to embarrassment even though his eyes stay flinty.

“I told them to stay put,” Chris says flatly.  “Derek and Scott decided to charge ahead.”

“Ah,” Stiles doesn’t look at all surprised.  Outside, a car alarm wails, which mostly covers the groans of two werewolves healing.  “So what was your plan then?  Drag Peter out at gunpoint and kill him somewhere else?”

This of all things seems to snap Allison out of her dazed state.  Her spine straightens, and something defiant enters her expression.  “He murdered my aunt, Stiles!”

“And your aunt murdered most of his entire family because she’s a psychopath with a trigger-happy hard-on for werewolves,” Stiles counters bluntly, and Allison flinches at the reminder.  “Now I’m not too familiar with the supernatural laws in this realm, but I’m aware of them enough to know that Peter only skipped one step.  If he’d gone to the Tribunal to make his case, they would’ve _gift-wrapped_ your aunt and all her other willing accomplices and _given_ them to the Hale Pack as reparations.  After that, your family would’ve had to pay a sum for every dead packmate, at the very least.  In the worst case scenario, and I have no doubt Peter would’ve been able to wring it out of you, your whole family would’ve been indebted to the Hales until their Alpha deemed the debt paid.  You got off lucky.”

Allison is so pale she’s almost white.  She looks like she wants to argue, to deny it, but Stiles turns his focus on Chris.  “Ask your father.  He’s a hunter, isn’t he?  He should know the laws backwards and sideways.”

Allison snaps her head around.  Her father’s jaw clenches, but in the end, he allows a stiff nod to confirm Stiles’ words.  Her face crumples.

Before anyone can say anything more, a voice from the door remarks, “Oh dear, someone really should see to that car alarm.”

The Argents wheel around.  Peter takes the opportunity to step forward so that he’s standing level with Stiles again and can curl a possessive arm around the phoenix’s waist.  Everybody stares at the old lady in a bathrobe standing amidst the spray of wood and plaster on the landing.

“Hi Mrs. Stutton!”  Stiles waves at her.

The woman waves back, smiling vaguely at them all.  “Hello, Stiles.  Having visitors over so early?”

“Yup.  They’re relatives; here to celebrate my mom’s birthday,” Stiles tells her glibly.

“Oh, how exciting!”  Mrs. Stutton smiles again, kind but still not quite… there.  “Do wish her a happy birthday for me, won’t you?”

“I will,” Stiles agrees.  “Sorry to bother you with all the noise.”

“No bother at all,” Mrs. Stutton assures, already shuffling back to her apartment next door.  “But do get that alarm shut off, won’t you?  Don’t want to wake the whole block.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles promises, and then she’s gone, shutting the door behind her.

Allison blinks first.  “What just happened?  Didn’t she see-?”

Peter glances at the phoenix.  Stiles smiles slyly.  “We don’t really do illusions.  I mean, I can, but I’d need to use some runework for that.  I’m not a kitsune.  What phoenixes do is more like a… a filter, I guess.  She saw, and heard, but she didn’t really _see_ or _hear_ , and her mind just filled in all the blanks on its own.  It’s like that for everybody unless they already know what’s here.  Why do you think half the police department aren’t on their way yet?”

Peter mulls this over.  It’s a handy skill to have, one of many, it seems.  He suspects he’s only just scraped the surface of what a phoenix can do, especially one with thousands of years under his belt.

“So you are a phoenix,” Chris is looking at Stiles again, and Peter’s lips peel back.  The hunter’s hand twitches like he wants to reach for a weapon but he doesn’t actually go through with it.

“Well, you did see,” Stiles studies the hunter for a moment before his attention slides back to the door, just as the car alarm cuts off without warning, footsteps thunder up the stairwell again, and then Derek and Scott are there, still limping and bloodied up but perfectly alive.

“Stiles!”  Scott exclaims the second he sees Stiles standing beside Peter.  “You have to get away from him!  He’s dangerous!”

Peter rolls his eyes.  Stiles looks like he’s tempted to do the same.

“Alright, how about we cut to the chase?”  Stiles suggests in tones that really don’t offer a lot of leeway towards suggestion.  “You’re all here because you want to kill Peter.”  Any lingering goodwill drops from his face.  “I won’t let you.  He’s my Chosen.  What you humans might call soulmate.  And I like you Scott.  I even like you a bit, Allison.  But trust me when I say I have zero qualms setting all four of you on fire if you hurt Peter.”

A heavy silence follows.  Scott is gawking.  Derek glares, anger split between Stiles and Peter.  Chris’ hand drifts towards his coat where Peter can smell wolfsbane and gun oil.  Allison is the only one who shivers and takes a step back.

Peter presses up right up against Stiles’ back, winding his other arm around the phoenix and smirking at their audience.  Although he gets the feeling that Stiles really is rolling his eyes this time.

“Stiles!  What are you-” Scott bursts out, cringing a bit.  “He Bit me!  And I don’t want to be a werewolf so I have to-”

“I’m not excusing what he did,” Stiles interrupts.  “Even if he was completely out of his mind, it was wrong.  But I’m still not letting you kill him, so you might as well suck it up and get over it.  Being a werewolf got you a girlfriend, got you first string, got you a life free of health problems.  And I _already told you_ _multiple times_ to stop listening to Derek.  Killing the Alpha that Bit you _does not_ turn you back to human.”  He pins Derek with an icy look.  “Tell him the truth.  Now.”

Scott opens his mouth, closes it, and then rounds on Derek.  “What- Is that- Did you lie to me?”

Derek glowers at Stiles, discomfort simmering under his skin, muscles bunching with the desire to do some violence, if only so there wouldn’t be any further need for talk.  “I said it _could_ turn you back.  It’s a legend.”

“Disproved centuries ago,” This time, it’s Chris who cuts in, something like incredulity seeping into his features as he glances at Derek.  “You can’t even really call it a legend anymore.  Every hunter knows that; otherwise, committing suicide if we were turned wouldn’t be the only option in the Code.  We’d just hunt down the Alpha that Bit us so we’d turn back, and it would kill two birds with one stone.  And werewolves would know that better than hunters do.  It’s a pointless lie, Hale; Scott would’ve found out sooner or later.”

Derek flushes, and his teeth look more like fangs.  Scott looks very, very betrayed.  Peter scoffs, but he supposes it was a good tactic for as long as it lasted.  In fact, he didn’t think Derek had it in him to pull a lie like that out of his ass and serve it up just to con someone into helping him.  His nephew is more the punch-it-in-the-face type when it comes to solving problems, which admittedly, was what Derek still mostly did, but the bit of trickery was a nice touch.

“Now that that’s cleared up,” He drawls, smiling coldly from over Stiles’ shoulder.  “Perhaps you could all vacate the premises.  You Argents don’t have a leg to stand on, and Scott, I have no need for you anymore; rest assured if we never see each other again, it will be too soon.  Although Derek, you’ll be paying for the repairs.”

Derek clearly has no intention of paying for anything, and Chris really looks like he wants to shoot Peter in the face, but it’s Scott who blurts out first, “But- But how can you side with _him_ , Stiles?  He’s killed so many people!  How can he be your- your soulmate?”

Stiles shrugs.  Peter gets a glimpse of his face, and there’s something odd there as he looks at Scott.  “He just is.  And the people Peter killed deserved it anyway.”

Scott looks horrified.  Stiles tilts his head, still staring intently.  “I think I… underestimated you, Scott.”

Scott blinks.  “I- What?”

“Well,” Stiles gestures at Peter.  “Peter killed those people because they killed his family.  You were willing to kill Peter because you don’t want to be a werewolf.  You threw Allison her bow and directed her to set Peter on fire.  You seeing what I’m getting at here?”

Scott splutters.  “That’s _different!_   Peter had to be stopped!”

“Well he wasn’t killing innocents,” Stiles points out.  “And you would’ve killed him for your own gain.  I’m not saying this to throw stones.  You have no reason to care about Peter, you’re scared of him, and killing him would’ve been to your benefit.  But don’t talk like a hypocrite, Scott.  It’s annoying.”

Scott’s cheeks have reddened, and he retorts heatedly, “ _You_ wanted to kill him too!  You threw the Molotov cocktail!”

Stiles waves a hand.  “I knew it would miss.  Scott, I’m a _phoenix_.  I don’t have to throw anything to set anyone on fire.  Or if I’d wanted to hide what I am, I could’ve made the Molotov cocktail explode in Peter’s hand.”

Scott’s eyes are glowing yellow.  “And, what?  Now he’s your soulmate and you’re already-” He scowls, and Peter’s lip curls when the scent of disgust hits the air.  “-sleeping with him?  He’s- He’s twice your age at least!  He could be your dad!”

A beat.  Then Stiles snorts with genuine amusement.  “That’s what you’re going with?  The age difference?  Well you’re giving that speech to the wrong person.”  He reaches up and brushes fingers along Peter’s cheek.  “Peter?”

“Age is just a number, darling; I don’t mind,” He purrs, and Stiles laughs.

Scott looks pretty scandalized now.  Stiles sighs.  “Scott, leave it alone.  And Peter’s right – could you all leave?  We were actually sleeping.”

Scott blanches, disgust filling the air again.  This time, it’s Derek who snaps irritably, “Would you stop that?  You should know what sex smells like and they don’t!  They’re just screwing with you!”

Allison involuntarily blushes.  Chris zeroes in on that, stays in denial for about three seconds, and then gives up and turns homicidal eyes on Scott.  Scott takes a hasty step back, even as he snarls at Derek, hostility plain in the rigid line of his shoulders.

Peter looks at all of them, still wants to kill them more than a little, but settles for murmuring, “Tell me you can do something about this?  Or I’m going to start throwing people out.  Again.”

Stiles rolls his eyes again but seems to be in perfect agreement because he claps his hands together, and in the next moment, blue flames spring to life and spiral their way up all four intruders.  Before any of them can do more than shout, the flames seem to squeeze, and then they’re gone, leaving only an echoing _fwoom_ of fire being snuffed out behind.

Peter lets himself relax.  “Where did you send them?”

Stiles slumps back against Peter, and Peter wastes no time scooping him up, frowning at the way Stiles’ head lolls.  “Mm, the Preserve.”

“That’s kind,” Peter remarks, heading back to the bedroom.  There’s nothing he can do about the door right now, and with Stiles’ perception-altering ability in place, it shouldn’t be an issue anyway.  And if the Argents or Scott or Derek come back, a door isn’t going to stop them.

“Not really,” Stiles mumbles as Peter sets him down on the mattress.  “I dumped them into that lake half a mile into the woods.”

Peter smirks, crawling back into bed as well.  Stiles tussles with his shirt until he’s able to shuck it off.  Then he rolls into Peter’s chest, shivering alarmingly as feathers fluff up his hair and bristle out from his shoulders and back.  Peter rubs his hands along Stiles arms before pulling up the blankets and curling around the phoenix.

“Body temperature’s still shaky,” Stiles grumbles.  “I’ll be fine.”  He pauses.  “They’ll be back.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees.  “But I could kill them next time.  Then they’ll never come back again.”

Stiles thumps him in the ribs with a half-hearted fist.  Peter chuckles.  For a while, he keeps an ear out for any noise that might be out of the ordinary.  Stiles dozes off, wakes, dozes off again.  He’s yawning and flopping onto his back when Peter brings up, “I was thinking, we could leave once you’ve fully recovered.”

Stiles flops back, eyes a lot more alert.  “We could leave now.  I know I haven’t been acting it but I don’t _have_ to sleep this much after a burning day.”

Peter shakes his head.  “I’m not in any hurry.  I don’t want to stay, but waiting a week or two isn’t going to make much of a difference.  I’d rather you get better first.”

“It’s not like I’m sick,” Stiles huffs but he’s smiling a little too, and his fingers find the mark on Peter’s chest, tracing the edges of the two feathers.  “Beacon Hills won’t have an Alpha though.”

“Technically, werewolves don’t _have_ to have one,” Peter tells him, and for once, it seems as if he knows something about a subject that Stiles isn’t already completely familiar with.  “A pack and a good Alpha makes each wolf stronger and far less likely to go feral, and it’s… it’s _instinct_ to _want_ a pack, but if a werewolf has a good enough anchor, they can also survive as an omega.  They’ll certainly be weaker, and hunters won’t like it, but so long as they prove to have enough control over their shift and instincts, they’ll live.  Of course, another pack might decide they want this territory for themselves and either kill the werewolves already occupying it or demand they join the pack or leave, and there’s always Codeless hunters out there, but those are threats that exist whether or not they’re omegas.”  He scoffs.  “Scott would never accept me as Alpha anyway, and the foolish boy is still insisting on consorting with the Argent girl.  Derek’s already betrayed him, but then my nephew has always excelled at shooting himself in the foot.”

He trails off, absently petting a hand through the feathers on Stiles’ back because Stiles makes low crooning noises when he does.

“Do _you_ want a pack?”  Stiles asks abruptly, though his throat still vibrates with contentment.

Peter peers at him.  “ _You’re_ my Pack.”

Stiles’ cheeks tint a charming pink.  “I know.  I mean, I’m only one phoenix though.  So-”

“Stiles,” Peter catches his chin and tilts his head up.  “You are more than enough.  What would I do with a huge pack anyway?  I’ve tried that once already and-” He thinks of Talia and her constant disapproval and disappointment in him, and Laura and her superiority and abandonment, and a whole family he never really fit in with no matter what he did.  “-and I regret that Kate got to them before I could rip her throat out and throw Derek through a few trees, but Stiles, I never felt like I belonged.  But you… I want to travel.  I want to meet your siren friend, and visit a shopping district run by faeries, and spend a winter in one of those underground cities you told me about, and I want to do all of that with you.”

He stops.  He can’t really put into words the way he felt when Stiles told him he’s now Peter’s, and Peter is his, for the rest of eternity if Peter so wishes.  And he does wish it.  Because he’s never had anyone to call his own, anyplace to call his own.  He’s never had anyone who put him first the way Stiles has done since that fateful night, the way he did this very morning.  And he doesn’t know how to say it, how to tell Stiles that – even though they’ve just met – Peter has never felt more alive than he does with Stiles at his side.

But maybe he doesn’t have to because Stiles smiles at him like he understands, but also like he’s surprised, like he didn’t expect Peter to accept their soul bond as willingly as Peter has, but how could he possibly not?

“I’ll leave a few books from the Hale vault for Scott and his mother,” Peter concludes, gently tucking Stiles’ head under his chin and combing fingers through his feathers again.  Stiles immediately starts up that crooning sound again.  “And that girl I Bit – she was supposed to be insurance, in case I died.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully.  “Right, the banshee.”

Peter nods.  “I don’t need her anymore but I’ve kickstarted her powers early.  I’ll leave her all the books I can dig up on banshees too.”

“…I could too,” Stiles offers.  “I have copies of texts about banshees, written _by_ banshees.”

Almost automatically, Peter lifts his head and looks at the bookshelf.  Stiles chirps out a laugh, tugging Peter back down.  “Not there.  Five thousand years and you don’t really think that’s all the books I own?  I have a nest, a more permanent home, you could say, on Astade.  That’s where I keep most of my belongings.  Phoenixes don’t hoard as much as dragons but we’re bound to pick up things over the years.  We could go there first when we leave?”

Peter nods, because of course he wants to see Stiles’ nest, but he also has to suppress a surge of unbecoming eagerness.  Stiles just grins though, eager enough for the both of them, and then snuggles in again.

“But would you have to go there to get the books?”  Peter prods.

“Nah, I’ve anchored it to me.  Phoenixes can do that.  It takes a lot of energy when we first create it but we all tend to have at least one place we’re connected to that thoroughly, so that we’d have a safe place to go to just in case.  There are a few creatures out there that can follow a phoenix’s trail even after we’ve jumped away, but we put a lot of work into our nests so that they’ll be able to hide us when we’re in danger.  And of course, we can summon stuff from it whenever we want, which is why we store most of our belongings in it.  It’s like the teleportation thing I did on Scott and the others, except backwards.”

Fascinating.  Werewolves aren’t half as interesting, honestly.

Stiles yawns.  Peter snorts, amused.  “More sleep?”

Stiles shrugs and closes his eyes.  Then he wiggles his shoulders until Peter starts petting his feathers again.  Within seconds, he’s nodded off once more.

Peter studies that face, sharp-boned, wreathed in feathers, beautiful.  Adorable too, with the staccato drumbeat of his heart and scrunch of his nose when a stray feather tickles it until Peter sweeps it back behind one ear.

He could get used to this, could love this, could love _Stiles_.  He thinks he might be starting to already.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	4. Chapter 4

 

Stiles does eventually stop lazing around and get out of bed.  Peter fusses more than Stiles expects him to, assuring him that he could rest some more, but Stiles isn’t about to let his Chosen wait on him hand and foot.  Besides, it’s not like he’s even leaving the apartment.  Just.  Peter cooked last night; it’s only fair for Stiles to cook today.

So they have a late lunch.  Stiles chooses a recipe that a couple of brownies taught him about a century ago at a festival celebrating the harvest moon.  He gets the ingredients he needs from his home nest and silently preens when his Chosen watches the entire cooking procedure with rapt attention and then moans around the first bite like it’s the best meal he’s ever eaten in his whole life.

It’s late in the afternoon when they part ways.  Only for a while.  Peter borrows some of Stiles’ clothes, takes the spare car keys, and ducks out to go fetch Stiles’ car.  He insists, and Stiles doesn’t mind so much.  His feathers bristle when Peter rounds a corner and leaves his line of sight, but at the same time, his Chosen is a glowing beacon of _redeyessharpteethsoftfur_ in his mind, and Stiles could find him anywhere, in any realm, instantaneously.  If Peter were in trouble, he’d sense it, and no number of deities would be able to help whoever hurt his Chosen.

Peter is gone for all of fifteen minutes before Stiles gets his first visitor.  He expected Scott, to be honest, or even Derek.  He doesn’t expect Allison, who’s in fresh dry clothes but creeps up the stairs like she wants to run away.  Stiles makes both of them hot chocolate, and they sit outside on the top step of the stairwell, sunlight painting their shoes.

Allison downs half the chocolate before finally speaking.  “Why is Peter your soulma- I mean, um, your Chosen?”

Stiles hums noncommittally, leaning forward, elbows balanced on his thighs.  “He just is.  Nobody really knows _why_ , not even phoenixes.  I mean, two phoenixes mate and have an egg, or even just one phoenix and their non-phoenix mate, but nobody can ever predict when the egg will hatch.  It just does.  So some of us theorize that a phoenix is hatched from a wish made by our Chosen.  Time means nothing to the universe at large, to whatever fate or destiny matches a phoenix with their Chosen, so some of us think that sometime in the future, when our Chosen need us most, their soul makes a wish, a plea for help, screamed into the void of time, and that’s when a phoenix hatches.”  Stiles quirks a wry smile.  “Romantic, isn’t it?”

Allison stares into her drink.  “…Do you believe it?”

Stiles shrugs.  “It would be nice.  But some phoenixes have more than one Chosen, never at the same time, but they do, and the whole wish concept doesn’t fit that.  Of course, those who _do_ believe it argue that – in that case – a phoenix is simply borne from multiple wishes.  And I suppose it’s always possible.  Even phoenixes don’t know everything about phoenixes.”

“It _would_ be nice,” Allison mutters almost wistfully, and sorrow clings to her like a ghost.  “I mean, you _died_ for him.  And you’re- you put him first, don’t you?  You’re- You’re straight with him, about the whole phoenix thing, and he trusts you.  Because he already- I thought about it, about when I saw him earlier, and he already looks… a _lot_ more stable than he was that night.  And he looks at you like-”

She falls silent.  Stiles watches her for a long minute, and then he sets aside his own mug, scoots down until he’s crouching in front of Allison, and gently catches her face in his hands.  Wide, startled eyes stare back at him as Stiles murmurs, “You are stronger than your mistakes, stronger than your ignorance, so long as you learn from it.  And even though it might not feel like it right now, your happiness does not depend on the whims of a boy.  Or the wishes of your family.  Or on anything or anyone but yourself.”

Allison’s eyes are glassy with tears, and her next words come out in a harsh shuddering whisper.  “They lied to me.  They _all_ lied to me.  My parents, my aunt, _Scott_.  And I just-”

“Then next time,” Stiles says quietly, letting her go, only to wrap his hands around hers.  “Find out for yourself.  If someone is lying to you, then find out the truth for yourself instead of believing what someone else tells you.  And then decide whether you can forgive the people who lied to you.  Whether they’re worth forgiving.”  He pauses.  “Trusting someone always means risking your heart, Allison.  Falling in love, or just loving someone, _caring_ about someone – they all require some measure of trust.  And sometimes it’s worth it, and sometimes it’s not, and you won’t know until you try.  And if you get burned for it, all you can do is get up and keep going.  Decide if you want to risk your heart again.  But Allison, _not_ risking your heart?  It’s a terribly lonely way to live.  Life hurts; that doesn’t mean you stop living.  Do you understand?”

He gets an armful of human child in response.  The hot chocolate sloshes out of the mug, spilling – thankfully – on the steps instead of him when Allison throws her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder.

Stiles is good at hugs, he thinks, so he folds his arms around her back and rock her back and forth a bit until she stops shaking.

Betrayal – of any sort – always hurts most.  And it’s a hard lesson to learn.

She pulls back with a wet cough, running a sleeve over her eyes, but she still manages a lopsided smile at him.  “You sound like an old man.”

Stiles sniffs haughtily.  “I’ll have you know I’m only five thousand years old.”

Allison splutters out a laugh, blinks, and then asks, “Really?”

Stiles grins at her.  “Really.”

Allison cocks her head.  “Is that- Is that _old_ for a phoenix, or still pretty young?”

Stiles tips his head from side to side.  “About middle-aged I guess.”

Allison nods thoughtfully.  “That’s… kind of cool.  I mean, being a phoenix in general seems pretty cool.”

Stiles chuckles, rising to pick up his drink again.  “Matter of perspective, I suppose.”  He waves a hand, both at Allison’s apologetic look _and_ the spilled liquid on the stairs, which sears away in a rush of blue flames.  “Now, if you’re feeling better, maybe you should get down there and assure your overprotective father that I haven’t set you on fire or something equally nefarious.”

“What?!”  Allison yelps, standing up abruptly and scanning the parking lot below.  It doesn’t take her long to catch sight of the figure loitering in the shadows of a nearby tree, gun in hand.  “Really, Dad?  Oh my god!  There was a reason I snuck out the window to get away!  ’Cause I didn’t want my lunatic father following me around shooting up anything that moves!”

She’s fuming by the end of it, and Chris at least has the decency to look… well, not ashamed or even sheepish, but he grimaces tightly, runs a hand over his face, and – after a quick glance at Stiles – holsters his gun.

“Here,” She turns to Stiles, passing back her mostly finished chocolate before hugging him again.  “Thank you, Stiles.  I needed- I needed that.  Now I’ll get my dad outta here.  Sorry about this.”

She marches off, and already, she looks stronger than Stiles has ever seen her, the confidence in her frame not as forced, the determined ferocity in her expression more real as she scowls her dad into leaving with her.

She’ll be fine, Stiles thinks, heading back inside.  She’s tougher than she knows.  Then again, humans usually are.

 

* * *

 

Peter growls when he smells the Argent girl, but she’s no longer around, and Stiles clearly never let her inside the apartment, so he doesn’t ask about it.  He smells tears too, not Stiles’, so he assumes the girl was here for comfort or advice or something like it.

Then he gets a whiff of Stiles and outright snarls.  Argent is all over the phoenix, and _that_ , Peter can’t let stand.

“Whoa!”  Stiles huffs out a laugh when he realizes why Peter has him pinned against a wall and is now proceeding to smoosh his face into Stiles’ neck.  “Ah, I guess I should’ve taken a shower.  I forgot scent’s a big thing for werewolves.”

He combs an idle hand through Peter’s hair, and Peter purrs approvingly until he’s rubbed out as much of Allison’s scent as he possibly can.

“I’ll just go take a shower now, shall I?”  Stiles asks sardonically when Peter finally pulls back and wrinkles his nose at his shirt.  “In the meantime, _you_ can look through some of the books I brought over from my nest and sort out-”

Peter is gone, down the hall and in Stiles’ bedroom in the time it takes Stiles to lower his arms.

“-what we should give the kids,” Stiles finishes with a roll of his eyes.  “Right then.”

He sighs, helplessly fond if also exasperated, and heads to the bathroom for a shower.  From the bedroom, the rustle of parchment can already be heard.

 

* * *

 

Peter is immersed in a scroll depicting the meditation techniques that a banshee would find useful when Stiles comes out of the bathroom, trying to dry his feathers and not having much success.  He could always fire-dry them, but then the barbs poof out for hours on end.  It’s why he hates getting wet when he isn’t either fully human or fully phoenix, but after a burning day, it’s just easier for him to be in-between as much as possible.  Still, the feathers on his back are all clumped together, and the ones on his head aren’t much better.  He sits down on the bed, giving up on the towel after a few more rounds of futilely twisting around and trying to dry and smooth down his feathers at the same time.  There’s a cluster of sodden feathers halfway up his spine, and he can _just_ reach it with his fingers.  He tries scratching at them to straighten them out, and then – when that doesn’t work, and he’s just _so uncomfortable_ – he closes his fingers around them and _yanks_.

He winces, dropping slightly bloody plumage onto the towel.  He’s about to try and get at another spot when he’s knocked onto his back with Peter towering over him, eyes gleaming red as he hisses, “What are you doing?!”

Stiles blinks.  “Um.  Straightening my feathers?”

The disbelief on Peter’s face is clear to see.  “You just pulled out a handful of feathers and you call that _straightening?!_ ”

Stiles frowns.  “It’s uncomfortable.  Hell, it _itches_.  My feathers just don’t dry out properly when I’m like this, and I can’t reach back there to preen them.”

Peter closes his eyes.  Then opens them again and bares his teeth.  “You could ask _me_.”

Stiles blinks again.  “…Oh.”

Peter rolls his eyes so hard his whole head moves.  “Turn over.”

“You know, you don’t have to,” Stiles says even as he turns onto his stomach.  “This sort of takes a while.  I mean, you have to keep preening them ’til they’re dry or they’ll clump together anyway.”

“That’s fine,” Peter rumbles in very even tones.  His fingers dig between Stiles’ feathers and drag downward, and Stiles promptly goes limp with pleasure.  “I don’t mind.  I’m happy to do this.”

“Y’won’t be sayin’ that once y’realize how tedious this’s,” Stiles mumbles, resting his head on his arms and sighing blissfully.

He doesn’t catch Peter’s reply, if the werewolf replies at all, but he does hear Peter enquire almost casually, “So then do you usually take care of… this by yourself?”

“Well yeah,” Stiles murmurs softly, letting his eyes slide shut.  “I mean, who else is there?”

Peter’s fingers pause for a heartbeat before continuing again.  Stiles sort of really wants to fall asleep now but he feels like he should at least give a proper explanation.  “Phoenixes norm’ly help preen other phoenixes when we’re in that- that halfway shift, ’specially the weeks after a burnin’ day when ’s’better to stay in-between.  But you know I don’ like most phoenixes so I don’ spend much time with ’em.  Uppity bas’ards, all of ’em.  So, you know, ’s jus’ me.”

He stops, toes curling languidly before he relaxes all his muscles again.  “’s been jus’ me for so long.  ’m so glad I found you.”

And then he’s dozing off, lulled into a deep slumber by the hypnotic sweep of Peter’s gentle fingers.

 

* * *

 

Guilt is pointless in this situation.  Utterly groundless.  It’s not as if he could’ve been born any sooner than he was.  But for the first time since they met, Peter thinks – really thinks – of waiting over five thousand years on little more than faith while all your fellow phoenixes found soulmates of their own, and you’re left to search in vain for that one person who would mean everything and never leave you alone, that one person who could spend eternity with you and never leave you behind again, and he wonders how Stiles hasn’t gone mad in all the time he’s had to live by himself.

Peter grooms the phoenix until every visible feather is dry and silky-soft.  He scowls at the ones Stiles yanked out earlier but he only bundles them into the towel now and places them on the nightstand before lying down and curling possessively around Stiles.

Well, he’s here now.  And any Chosen that might have been destined to come after Peter will just have to be disappointed because he has absolutely no intention of ever letting Stiles go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	5. Chapter 5

 

Peter raids the Hale vault the next day.  Well, not _raid_ , the contents are partly his after all, but he doubts Derek would see it that way.  Not that he cares whether or not Derek catches him in the vault.  Peter’s a lot stronger now, both because of his Alpha status, and because of the boost Stiles has given him.  And even if both those things fail him for whatever reason, Stiles will be there to set the world on fire for him, so he’s got nothing to worry about.

Speaking of Stiles, Peter does his level best to impress on the phoenix how very important Peter feels it is for Stiles to never ever start yanking out his own feathers again.  Preening them properly is what Peter’s for now.  In response, Stiles just looked irritatingly amused, but he also looked like he was willing to indulge, so Peter will take what he can get.  Baby steps.  They’ll work on it.

He goes to the vault today.  He’s not about to rely on Stiles for everything, and before the fire, he hid a nest egg here, money he made and squirrelled away for a rainy day instead of giving it all to Talia and the family accounts.  Peter believes in being prepared, and he never thought it was right that everything he earned went solely to the family.  He gave more than his fair share to the Pack but he wasn’t about to leave nothing for himself, and what better place to hide his income than right under Talia’s nose?  Of course, he also has a small bank account of his own – a potential smokescreen just in case Talia ever suspected and went digging deep enough into Peter’s bank statements, which she did once but didn’t dig deep enough – but that will have to wait a bit until he can re-establish his identity.

He has the box of cold hard cash in his lap, a stack of books beside him, and a few jars of poisons and antidotes and rare ingredients on top of that when Derek shows up.

“What are you doing?”  His nephew – of course – demands, eyes already glowing blue, hands clenched into fists.  He’s smart enough to keep his distance but not smart enough to not enter the vault at all.

“What does it look like, Derek?”  Peter sighs, absently counting the bills.  “Taking back what’s mine, _obviously_.”

“None of that’s yours,” Derek growls, taking another step closer.  “That belongs to the family, and you don’t deserve any of it.”

“Ah, are we back to the Laura issue?”  Peter smiles winningly at his nephew.  “Well, considering I only killed one family member while you killed the rest, I think I’m more entitled to this vault than you are.”

Derek flinches back.  He makes it too easy.

“Fortunately for you,” Peter continues blithely.  “I’m only here to collect the things _I_ put in it.  I earned this money, worked for every penny, so it’s mine.  And I was the one who tracked down these books _and_ the contents of those jars, so they’re mine too.  I never did agree with your mother’s insistence on sharing with the family.  It wasn’t like anybody ever appreciated the value of most of these things anyway.”

He rises to his feet, shuffling as many of the jars and texts into the box before tucking the last three books under his free arm.  Then he turns to leave.

Derek doesn’t move from the entrance.  Peter smirks.  “Going to try and stop me, Nephew?”

Derek bares his fangs.  “You can’t take those!  Who knows what the hell you’re gonna do with them!”

Peter rolls his eyes.  “Don’t be an idiot, Derek.  I’ve finished my business with this godforsaken town, and I’m leaving in another week or two.  That requires packing up my belongings and buying some new clothes at the very least.  Now either get out of my way, or I will _make you_ get out of my way, and I can assure you, the second option will hurt a lot more.”

He flashes his eyes, and Derek’s shoulders jerk, but all he does in the end is ask, “You’re… leaving?”

“Yes,” Peter drawls.  “Be happy, Derek.  With any luck, we won’t ever have to lay eyes on each other again.”

Derek… looks thrown.  Like he doesn’t know how to react.  Which, why?  As if Peter would want to _stay_ , here, in this place where he never truly fit in before the fire, was never truly welcome, never truly wanted, and was left to rot and die a slow agonizing death after the fire.

More than anything else, he absolutely _loathes_ Laura for that.  You’re never supposed to leave Pack behind, no matter how inconvenient or dangerous or difficult.  Especially when you’re Alpha.  And his darling niece spent so many years strutting around flaunting her birthright, and it didn’t help that other packs were already kissing her ass because she would be the next Hale Alpha.  And of course, Talia didn’t do anything to stop it.  Her children could do no wrong in her eyes, always too soft on them even when they deserved a good thrashing in the training ring.  Heaven forbid _Peter_ put more than a few scratches on them.

He takes a breath.  None of that matters anymore.  Laura’s dead, and yes, perhaps he does feel a spark of regret for that, because in the end, she was still blood, but it won’t ever be more than a spark, and that’s easy enough to ignore.  Blood doesn’t mean Pack, blood doesn’t even necessarily mean family, and Peter hasn’t truly been able to call anyone family in a long, long time, if he ever has at all.

“Get out of my way, Derek,” He says once more, levelling a flat, cold look on his nephew, who finally seems to realize that Peter means business, and if he doesn’t get out of the way, his uncle really might snap and rip his throat out once and for all.

Derek falters, shifting his weight from foot to foot uneasily, and then, at last, steps aside and doesn’t even try and make a grab for him.   Peter sneers but doesn’t say another word as he stalks past and out of the vault.  Derek can lock up.  Or not.  Peter doesn’t care anymore.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is standing on the landing outside when Peter gets back, staring distantly out over the rest of the town.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, turning to Peter and automatically reaching out to alleviate some of the load in Peter’s arms.  Peter passes him the books so he can juggle the box a bit better.  “Are you alright?”

“Yes.  Yes, of course,” The phoenix leads the way back inside.  Peter puts the box down on the dining table so Stiles does too, frowning down at the top book.

“Stiles?”  Peter prods again.

“This is wrong,” Stiles says suddenly, picking up the text, a journal detailing the intricacies of faerie royalty, supposedly written by someone who once met the Seelie Court.  “Or right, I suppose, if you read it for entertainment.  But I’ve seen faeries all but laugh themselves to death over this.  It’s pretty funny _because_ it’s all wrong.”

Peter plucks the book from Stiles’ hands and tries very hard not to sulk.  It’s one of the texts he spent a good five years hunting down because he wanted to know more about the Fae.

“It’s alright,” Stiles pats his shoulder consolingly.  “This thing’s practically a classic.  You can even find it in libraries in the faerie realm.  In the children’s comedy section.”

Peter glowers.  Stiles grins and leans in to nuzzle his jaw before taking the book back and sticking it back into the pile.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Peter huffs after a moment, tweaking one of Stiles’ hair-feathers in amusement when the phoenix makes a guilty placating chirping noise, one that’s hastily replaced by a disgruntled expression.  “It’s not going to work.  What’s going on, Stiles?”

“Nothing,” Stiles mutters petulantly, but he follows that with a sigh and another glance out the (still doorless) door.  “It’s just… Phoenixes are typically classified as ‘good’ creatures, you know?  I mean, personally, I’m pretty sure I don’t qualify, and I know some phoenixes who don’t either due to their sheer superior assholery-”

Peter snorts, and Stiles smirks briefly.

“-but in general, we’re pretty good at sensing… ‘evil’, I guess.  Ill intent.”

“And you’re sensing it here?”  Peter summarizes.

“Yeah, I-” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face.  “It just entered the town.  And it’s stopped at the Argent house.”

There’s a dozen reasons why.  Peter still bets on only one.

“There are places, like this town,” Stiles continues quietly, eyes avid on Peter’s face.  “In every realm, on every world, old, and founded on death and magic, with its own blood-soaked history; a place that drags you in, and doesn’t like letting go.  You want to leave?  We should leave.  But the more you get involved, the deeper the claws go, and the harder it will be to walk away.  Places like this, they’ll drain you dry until you’ve got nothing left to give.”

Peter listens, he does, but he also thinks of Argents, thinks of the handful of times he’s met Gerard when he went to social functions with Talia, thinks of the rumours he _knows_ are true about the Argent Empire’s unofficial patriarch but no one can ever prove.  If Kate was an evil bitch, then Gerard Argent is about a hundred times worse, and Peter has no doubt that he knew what his niece was up to here in good old Beacon Hills.  Might even have been the one who sent her.  And if that’s true, then it would be Peter’s pleasure to sink his teeth into the hunter.  Gerard’s long past his expiry date anyway.

“We’re not leaving for another few weeks anyway,” Peter says slowly.  “That should be enough time to get rid of Gerard.  The evil you’re sensing.  Gerard Argent.”

Stiles stares at him for a long minute and then shrugs, turning away and busying himself with straightening the books.  “Alright.  I told you – I’d stay if you stay.  It’s all the same to me anyway.”

Peter nods, if a touch uncertainly because Stiles sounds… off.

“But Peter,” The phoenix pins him with amber eyes that flicker with an inner blue flame.  “Be careful.  Places like this – they’ll keep you forever if you forget to fight it.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles should, perhaps, jump them both out of this town, right now.  But that would be against Peter’s wishes, and he never wants to take his Chosen’s autonomy away from him.  That’s a big no-no for every phoenix, stuck-up feather duster or otherwise.  Maybe it doesn’t count if it’s for Peter’s own good, but Stiles has lived long enough to know that ‘for someone’s own good’ is a slippery slope to go down.

He flies to the Argent household instead, while Peter is in the bathroom.  There are three extra cars out front, and more than one human – hunter, by the look and smell of them – are coming and going from the house.  Stiles blends in nicely with the shadows of a tree so none of them see him.  He’s level with Allison’s bedroom window though, so when he spots Allison pacing inside, he flutters his wings until he catches her wide-eyed attention, and then she’s sliding the window open and waving him inside.

“Stiles!”  She whisper-shouts the moment she has the window shut again.  “Do you- My grandpa, he got here this morning, for Kate’s funeral.  Do you know if he’s- if he’s up to something?”  She bites her lip.  “It’s just- I think Dad’s afraid of him.  And he won’t leave me alone in a room with him.  Even Mom is sort of… weird around him.  And those men that Grandpa brought with him have been moving a whole bunch of stuff into the basement, and it’s not just weapons.”

Stiles stays a phoenix, mostly because he’ll be naked if he changes back, and most humans get strange about that sort of thing.

 _{He’s definitely up to something,}_ Stiles tells her, and Allison gasps, one hand coming up to touch her head.  _{He’s worse than Kate, Allison.  But he also feels like decay.}_

“Decay?”  Allison adjusts quickly, more focused on Stiles’ words than how he’s talking to her.  “You mean like- like he’s sick?”

Stiles bobs his head.  Allison’s brow creases.  “Well then, can we, I don’t know, speed it up?”

Stiles doesn’t have eyebrows as a phoenix but he must convey the expression anyway because Allison hunches sheepishly, although there’s a set to her jaw that shows her resolve.  “Okay, maybe not that drastic, but… my _dad_ is scared of him, Stiles.  My dad is scared of his own dad.  There’s something really wrong with that no matter how you look at it.”

Stiles nods again in agreement.  _{Peter wants to kill him.}_

Allison snorts.  “Of course he does.”  She pauses.  “How soon can he get around to that?”

This time, Stiles just stares at her until she ducks her head and wraps her arms around herself.  “…I already lost Kate.  And okay, she was a murdering psycho, I _know_.  But she was still my aunt, she was like a sister to me sometimes, and I don’t- I don’t want to lose any more of my family.  I don’t know Grandpa, and he’s obviously someone even my parents don’t really want to be around, so I- I want him gone.  Even if gone means- means _dead_ , I just don’t want anyone else I care about dying too.”

Stiles watches her fingers dig bruises into her skin, and then he croons a quiet tune at her, just loud enough for her to hear, one that soothes her agitation.  She manages a weak smile and reaches out like she wants to pet him but then thinks better of it.  Stiles considers letting her but… well, he doesn’t know her _that_ well, and she’s not his Chosen.

 _{We’d need evidence,}_ Stiles tells her.  _{Proof to let everyone know that Gerard deserves what’s coming to him.  It won’t really matter in the long run I suppose, because no one will be able to follow Peter if I don’t want them to, but I think it would still be better if he isn’t on every hunter’s hit list.}_

“That wouldn’t be very convenient,” Allison agrees with a wry quirk of her lips.  “Okay, I can… spy for you?  Grandpa was… He brought up werewolves a couple times.  He might try to talk to me about them again.  I can see what he wants?”

Stiles considers this, considers her.  _{Be careful.  Don’t do this just because you want a distraction from Kate’s death.}_

Allison flushes and sits back on her heels.  For a long moment, she rests her head in her hands and just breathes.  Then she lifts her head, and her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, and defiantly clear.

“It’s not _just_ that,” She concedes.  “Grandpa- _Gerard_ gives me the creeps.  And I want to- I want to do something right for once.  This way,” She smiles a little again.  “I’ll find out for myself what he’s hiding.”

Stiles trills his amusement and nods once more.  _{Alright.  Just don’t make him too suspicious.  You have my number if you need help so don’t hesitate to ask for it.  Asking doesn’t make you weak.}_

Allison swallows and nods.  “Okay.  I’ll remember that.  Will I see you tomorrow at school?”

Stiles thinks about that before shaking his head.  _{I think I’ll withdraw.  I don’t really feel like going anymore.}_

“Right.”  Allison nods briskly.  “Then I’ll text you an update tomorrow, even if Grandpa doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary.  And… you be careful too, okay?  There are a lot more hunters in town now.”

Stiles chirps, reassurance and goodbye both, before spreading his wings and flaming directly back to his apartment where Peter is still taking his time in the bath.  He’ll have to tell his Chosen about this latest development once he comes out, and hopefully, the entire matter will be resolved sooner rather than later.

Beacon Hills gave him Peter, and for that, he will always be grateful.  But the town itself has done very little to endear itself to Stiles, and in his opinion, the sooner he and Peter are gone from it, the better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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